白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第44章

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　　Three　days　later　an　actual　noxious　odor　drifted　across　the　river。　A　pause；　a　careful　thoughtfulness；　seemed　to　settle　on　the　town。　Traffic　moved　more　slowly；　drivers　were　exceedingly　polite。　There　was　no　sign　of　official　action；　no　jitneys　or　ambulettes　painted　in　primary　colors。　People　avoided　looking　at　each　other　directly。　An　irritating　sting　in　the　nostrils；　a　taste　of　copper　on　the　tongue。　As　time　passed；　the　will　to　do　nothing　seemed　to　deepen；　to　fix　itself　firmly。　There　were　those　who　denied　they　smelled　anything　at　all。　It　is　always　that　way　with　odors。　There　were　those　who　professed　not　to　see　the　irony　of　their　inaction。　They'd　taken　part　in　the　SIMUVAC　exercise　but　were　reluctant　to　flee　now。　There　were　those　who　wondered　what　caused　the　odor；　those　who　looked　worried；　those　who　said　the　absence　of　technical　personnel　meant　there　was　nothing　to　worry　about。　Our　eyes　began　to　water。
　　About　three　hours　after　we'd　first　bee　aware　of　it；　the　vapor　suddenly　lifted；　saving　us　from　our　formal　deliberations。
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　　Now　and　then　I　thought　of　the　Zumwalt　automatic　hidden　in　the　bedroom。
　　The　time　of　dangling　insects　arrived。　White　houses　with　caterpillars　dangling　from　the　eaves。　White　stones　in　driveways。　You　can　walk　at　night　down　the　middle　of　the　street　and　hear　women　talking　on　the　telephone。　Wanner　weather　produces　voices　in　the　dark。　They　are　talking　about　their　adolescent　sons。　How　big；　how　fast。　The　sons　are　almost　frightening。　The　quantities　they　eat。　The　way　they　loom　in　doorways。　These　are　the　days　that　are　full　of　wormy　bugs。　They　are　in　the　grass；　stuck　to　the　siding；　hanging　in　the　air；　hanging　from　the　trees　and　eaves；　stuck　to　the　window　screens。　The　women　talk　long…distance　to　the　grandparents　of　the　growing　boys。　They　share　the　Trimline　phone；　beamish　old　folks　in　hand…knit　sweaters　on　fixed　ines。
　　What　happens　to　them　when　the　mercial　ends？
　　I　got　a　call　myself　one　night。　The　operator　said；　'There's　a　Mother　Devi　that　wishes　to　talk　collect　to　a　Jack　Gladney。　Do　you　accept？〃
　　〃Hello；　Janet。　What　do　you　want？〃
　　〃Just　to　say　hello。　To　ask　how　you　are。　We　haven't　talked　in　ages。〃
　　〃Talked？〃
　　〃Swami　wants　to　know　if　our　son　is　ing　to　the　ashram　this　summer。〃
　　〃Our　son？〃
　　〃Yours；　mine　and　his。　Swami　regards　the　children　of　his　followers　as　his　children。〃
　　〃I　sent　a　daughter　to　Mexico　last　week。　When　she　gets　back；　I'll　be　ready　to　talk　about　the　son。〃
　　〃Swami　says　Montana　will　be　good　for　the　boy。　He　will　grow　out；　fill　out。　These　are　his　touchy　years。〃
　　〃Why　are　you　calling？　Seriously。〃
　　〃Just　to　greet　you；　Jack。　We　greet　each　other　here。〃
　　〃Is　he　one　of　those　whimsical　swamis　with　a　snow…white　beard？　Sort　of　fun　to　look　at？〃
　　〃We're　serious　people　here。　The　cycle　of　history　has　but　four　ages。　We　happen　to　be　in　the　last　of　these。　There　is　little　time　for　whimsy。〃
　　Her　tiny　piping　voice　bounced　down　to　me　from　a　hollow　ball　in　geosynchronous　orbit。
　　〃If　Heinrich　wants　to　visit　you　this　summer；　it's　all　right　with　me。　Let　him　ride　horses；　fish　for　trout。　But　í　don't　want　him　getting　involved　in　something　personal　and　intense；　like　religion。　There's　already　been　some　kidnap　talk　around　here。　People　are　edgy。〃
　　〃The　last　age　is　the　Age　of　Darkness。〃
　　〃Fine。　Now　tell　me　what　you　want。〃
　　〃Nothing。　I　have　everything。　Peace　of　mind；　purpose；　true　fellowship。　I　only　wish　to　greet　you。　I　greet　you；　Jack。　I　miss　you。　I　miss　your　voice。　I　only　wish　to　talk　a　while；　pass　a　moment　or　two　in　friendly　reminiscence。〃
　　I　hung　up　and　went　for　a　walk。　The　women　were　in　their　lighted　homes；　talking　on　the　phone。　Did　swami　have　twinkling　eyes？　Would　he　be　able　to　answer　the　boy's　questions　where　I　had　failed；　provide　assurances　where　I　had　incited　bickering　and　debate？　How　final　is　the　Age　of　Darkness？　Does　it　mean　supreme　destruction；　a　night　that　swallows　existence　so　pletely　that　I　am　cured　of　my　own　lonely　dying？　I　listened　to　the　women　talk。　All　sound；　all　souls。
　　When　I　got　home　I　found　Babette　in　her　sweatsuit　by　the　bedroom　window；　staring　into　the　night。
　　Delegates　to　the　Hitler　conference　began　arriving。　About　ninety　Hitler　scholars　would　spend　the　three　days　of　the　conference　attending　lectures；　appearing　on　panels；　going　to　movies。　They　would　wander　the　campus　with　their　names　lettered　in　gothic　type　on　laminated　tags　pinned　to　their　lapels。　They　would　exchange　Hitler　gossip；　spread　the　usual　sensational　rumors　about　the　last　days　in　the　führerbunker。
　　It　was　interesting　to　see　how　closely　they　resembled　each　other　despite　the　wide　diversity　of　national　and　regional　backgrounds。　They　were　cheerful　and　eager；　given　to　spitting　when　they　laughed；　given　to　outdated　dress；　homeliness；　punctuality。　They　seemed　to　have　a　taste　for　sweets。
　　I　weled　them　in　the　starkly　modern　chapel。　I　spoke　in　German；　from　notes；　for　five　minutes。　I　talked　mainly　about　Hitler's　mother；　brother　and　dog。　His　dog's　name　was　Wolf。　This　word　is　the　same　in　English　and　German。　Most　of　the　words　I　used　in　my　address　were　the　same　or　nearly　the　same　in　both　languages。　I'd　spent　days　with　the　dictionary；　piling　lists　of　such　words。　My　remarks　were　necessarily　disjointed　and　odd。　I　made　many　references　to　Wolf；　many　more　to　the　mother　and　the　brother；　a　few　to　shoes　and　socks；　a　few　to　jazz；　beer　and　baseball。　Of　course　there　was　Hitler　himself。　I　spoke　the　name　often；　hoping　it　would　overpower　my　insecure　sentence　structure。
　　The　rest　of　the　time　I　tried　to　avoid　the　Germans　in　the　group。　Even　in　my　black　gown　and　dark　glasses；　with　my　name　in　Nazi　typeface　over　my　heart；　I　felt　feeble　in　their　presence；　death…prone；　listening　to　them　produce　their　guttural　sounds；　their　words；　their　heavy　metal。　They　told　Hitler　jokes　and　played　pinochle。　All　I　could　do　was　mutter　a　random　monosyllable；　rock　with　empty　laughter。　I　spent　a　lot　of　time　in　my　office；　hiding。
　　Whenever　I　remembered　the　gun；　lurking　in　a　stack　of　undershirts　like　a　tropical　insect；　I　felt　a　small　intense　sensation　pass　through　me。　Whether　pleasurable　or　fearful　I　wasn't　sure。　I　knew　it　mainly　as　a　childhood　moment；　the　profound　stir　of　secret…keeping。
　　What　a　sly　device　a　handgun　is。　One　so　small　in　particular。　An　intimate　and　cunning　thing；　a　secret　history　of　the　man　who　owns　it。　I　recalled　how　I'd　felt　some　days　earlier；　trying　to　find　the　Dylar。　　Like　someone　spying　on　the　family　garbage。　Was　I　immersing　myself；　little　by　little；　in　a　secret　life？　Did　I　think　it　was　my　last　defense　against　the　ruin　worked　out　for　me　so　casually　by　the　force　or　nonforce；　the　principle　or　power　or　chaos　that　determines　such　things？　Perhaps　I　was　beginning　to　understand　my　ex…wives　and　their　ties　to　intelligence。
　　The　Hitler　scholars　assembled；　wandered；　ate　voraciously；　laughed　through　oversized　teeth。　I　sat　at　my　desk　in　the　dark；　thinking　of　secrets。　Are　secrets　a　tunnel　to　a　dreamworld　where　you　control　events？
　　In　the　evening　I　sped　out　to　the　airport　to　meet　my　daughter's　plane。　She　was　excited　and　happy；　wore　Mexican　things。　She　said　the　people　who　sent　her　mother　books　to　review　wouldn't　leave　her　alone。　Dana　was　getting　big　thick　novels　every　day；　writing　reviews　which　she　microfilmed　and　sent　to　a　secret　archive。　She　plained　of　jangled　nerves；　periods　of　deep　spiritual　fatigue。　She　told　Steffie　she　was　thinking　of　ing　in　from　the　cold。
　　In　the　morning　I　sped　out　to　Glassboro　to　take　the　further　tests　my　doctor　had　advised；　at　Autumn　Harvest　Farms。　The　seriousness　of　such　an　occasion　is　directly　proportionate　to　the　number　of　bodily　emissions　you　are　asked　to　cull　for　analysis。　I　carried　with　me　several　specimen　bottles；　each　containing　some　melancholy　waste　or　secretion。　Alone　in　the　glove　partment　rode　an　ominous　plastic　locket；　which　I'd　reverently　enclosed　in　three　interlocking　Baggies；　successively　twist…tied。　Here　was　a　daub　of　the　most　solemn　waste　of　all；　certain　to　be　looked　upon　by　the　technicians　on　duty　with　the　mingled　deference；　awe　and　dread　we　have　e　to　associate　with　exotic　religions　of　the　world。
　　But　first　I　had　to　find　the　place。　It　turned　out　to　be　a　functional　pale　brick　building；　one　story；　with　slab　floors　and　bright　lighting。　Why　would　such　a　place　be　called　Autumn　Harvest　Farms？　Was　this　an　attempt　to　balance　the　heartlessness　of　their　gleaming　precision　equipment？　Would　a　quaint　name　fool　us　into　thinking　we　live　in　pre…cancerous　times？　What　kind　of　condition　might　we　expect　to　have　diagnosed　in　a　facility　called　Autumn　Harvest　Farms？　Whooping　cough；　croup？　A　touch　of　the　grippe？　Familiar　old　farmhouse　miseries　calling　for　bed　rest；　a　deep　chest　massage　with　soothing　Vicks　VapoRub。　Would　someone　read　to　us　from　David　Copperfield？
　　I　had　misgivings。　They　took　my　samples　away；　sat　me　down　at　a　puter　console。　In　response　to　questions　on　the　screen　I　tapped　out　the　story　of　my　life　and　death；　little　by　little；　each　response　eliciting　further　questions　in　an　unforgiving　progression　of　sets　and　subsets。　I　lied　three　times。　They　gave　me　a　loose…fitting　garment　and　a　wristband　ID。　They　sent　me　down　narrow　corridors　for　measuring　and　weighing；　for　blood…testing；　brain…graphing；　the　recording　of　currents　traversing　my　heart。　They　scanned　and　probed　in　room　after　room；　each　cubicle　appearing　slightly　smaller　than　the　one　before　it；　more　harshly　lighted；　emptier　of　human　furnishings。　Always　a　new　technician。　Always　faceless　fellow　patients　in　the　mazelike　halls；　crossing　from　room　to　room；　identically　gowned。　No　one　said　hello。　They　attached　me　to　a　seesaw　device；　turned　me　upside　down　and　let　me　hang　for　sixty　seconds。　A　printout　emerged　from　a　device　nearby。　They　put　me　on　a　treadmill　and　told　me　to　run；　run。　Instruments　were　strapped　to　my　thighs；　electrodes　planted　on　my　chest。　They　inserted　me　in　an　imaging　block；　some　kind　of　puterized　scanner。　Someone　sat　typing　at　a　console；　transmitting　a　message　to　the　machine　that　would　make　my　body　transparent。　I　heard　magnetic　winds；　saw　flashes　of　northern　light。　People　crossed　the　hall　like　wandering　souls；　holding　their　urine　aloft　in　pale　beakers。　I　stood　in　a　room　the　size　of　a　closet。　They　told　me　to　hold　one　finger　in　front　of　my　face；　close　my　left　eye。　The　panel　slid　shut；　a　white　light　flashed。　They　were　trying　to　help　me；　to　save　me。
　　Eventually；　dressed　again；　I　sat　across　a　desk　from　a　nervous　young　man　in　a　white　smock。　He　studied　my　file；　mumbling　something　about　being　new　at　this。　I　was　surprised　to　find　that　this　fact　did　not　upset　me。　I　think　I　was　even　relieved。
　　〃How　long　before　the　results　are　in？〃
　　〃The　results　are　in；〃　he　said。
　　〃I　thought　we　were　here　for　a　general　discussion。　The　human　part。　What　the　machines　can't　detect。　In　two　or　three　days　the　actual　numbers　would　be　ready。〃　〃The　numbers　are　ready。〃
　　〃I'm　not　sure　I'm　ready。　All　those　gleaming　devices　are　a　little　unsettling。　I　could　easily　imagine　a　perfectly　healthy　person　being　made　ill　just　taking　these　tests。〃
　　〃Why　should　anyone　be　made　ill？　These　are　the　most　accurate　test　devices　anywhere。　We　have　sophisticated　puters　to　analyze　the　data。　This　equipment　saves　lives。　Believe　me；　I've　seen　it　happen。　We　have　equipment　that　works　better　than　the　latest　X…ray　machine　or　CAT　scanner。　We　can　see　more　dee